


Aftermath

by clavicular



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, Gen, Implied or Off-stage Rape/Non-con, Loss of Control, People doing terrible things under the influence of outside forces, Rape Aftermath
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-20
Updated: 2013-04-20
Packaged: 2017-12-09 00:24:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 785
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/767828
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clavicular/pseuds/clavicular
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>There’s a dark cynicism in Stiles, one that usually shows up when he’s facing certain death and furious about it. It’s the part of his brain that tells him to keep talking, to make the smartass comments, to push until something breaks. It keeps trying to kick in now.</em>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Aftermath

Scott comes back to himself as soon as it’s over. It’s not the worst part, but it hurts.

 

“Stiles?” he asks, shaky and disoriented, and if the next words out of his mouth are “ _what happened?_ ” Stiles is going to… he’s going to…

 

Stiles doesn’t know what he’s going to do _._ He’s chained Scott to a radiator and fought him off with a fire extinguisher, has been willing to do whatever he had to, and now he knows what it feels like to aim a gun at his best friend’s head and not be able to pull the trigger.

 

Stiles’ clothes are torn to shreds.

 

There’s a dark cynicism in Stiles, one that usually shows up when he’s facing certain death and furious about it. It’s the part of his brain that tells him to keep talking, to make the smartass comments, to push until something breaks. It keeps trying to kick in now.

 

Stiles’ clothes are torn to shreds. He’s lying on a heap of dirt and leaves in the middle of the woods and there’s blood welling from the gash across his collarbone. He aches from the inside out. Scott’s clothes are fine though, Stiles thinks. It’s the darkly cynical part of him that notices.

 

Scott is watching Stiles with a wary look in his eyes, and that’s so fucking ironic. Part of Stiles’ brain is urging him to say something about it, to give it the savage treatment it deserves, but every comment he tries to make shorts out half-formed without getting past his lips. There’s an acrid taste in Stiles’ mouth. He wants to hit Scott. Wants to scream at him. Anything, as long as it hurts. He thinks Scott would probably let him, too. He doesn’t ask Stiles what happened.

 

Stiles sits up. His muscles protest, but they do it. He dusts himself off, and then assesses the damage as clinically as he knows how. The gash below his throat isn’t his only injury, but it’s definitely the worst. On the whole, that’s probably a good sign. His jeans are ripped pretty badly; he’ll have to ditch them, but they’ll last until he gets home. His shirt is completely shredded. It’s sliding off, held up by only a few strips of fabric, and it’s covered in blood and dirt. He should leave it here, but taking it off is unthinkable.

 

“Give me your jacket,” Stiles says.

 

He doesn’t look at Scott. His voice is like ice and he doesn’t care. Scott sheds the jacket and holds it out without a word.

 

Stiles should be able to take it from him. It’s not even a full arm’s length away, he _should be able_ to take it. His chest constricts at the thought though, breath turning rapid and shallow, and shit, he can’t start having a panic attack now, he _can’t._

 

Scott sets the jacket on the ground. Stiles takes three slow breaths and stares at the leaves in front of him, finds patterns in them for something to concentrate on. Then he pulls the jacket around his shoulders.

 

“I’m taking the jeep,” he says.

 

Scott nods. There’s a pause. Stiles thinks about standing up, thinks about walking off through the trees with Scott watching him go.

 

“Will you… will you leave first?”

 

His voice shakes. Scott looks like Stiles has just twisted a knife in his guts, but he nods at that too, and stands up. Then he hesitates.

 

“Stiles, I…”

 

“ _Don’t_.”  Stiles feels sick. He can’t hear this. “Don’t you dare say you’re sorry. Don’t ask me to forgive you. Just don’t.”

 

Scott stares at him, color draining from his face. He closes his mouth.

 

“Okay,” he says after a moment. It comes out choked, barely a whisper, but Stiles can’t care about that either. He keeps his eyes on the ground until Scott leaves.

 

Stiles doesn’t know what he’s going to do _._ He’s never felt so helpless and alone. He stares off into the distance, trying not to think, trying not to feel anything at all. Where do he and Scott go from here? It’s a question he can’t face, because no answer could possibly be okay. He’s not sure he could stand to see Scott again. He knows he can’t bear to lose him.

 

 In the end, Stiles does the only thing he can do. He gets to his feet and heads for the jeep. He’ll have to find the gun too, and at least that’s something to think about, a stupid task that he can deal with. Even if it does mean acknowledging… that he had it. That he dropped it. Still. He can do this.

 

 He pulls the jacket tighter around himself and begins to search.

 


End file.
